by Tahereh Mafi
Ocean went still. His eyes were inscrutable as he looked at me. And when he finally said, “Okay,” it sounded like a whisper.
I faltered.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Was that mean? Everyone’s always telling me how mean I am, but I don’t really do it on purpose, I just wanted t—”
“I think you’re perfect,” he said.
We were both quiet on the drive back. We sat together in a comfortable silence until, eventually, Ocean turned on the radio. I watched him, his hands coated in moonlight, as he picked out a song, the contents of which I wouldn’t hear and wouldn’t remember.
My heart was far too loud.
He texted me, much later that night.
i miss you
i wish i could hold you right now
I looked at his words for a while, feeling too much.
i miss you too
so much
I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. My lungs felt tight. I was wondering about that, wondering why it was that feeling good made it so hard to breathe, when my phone buzzed again.
i really love that you’d worry about me
i was beginning to feel like no one ever worried about me
And something about his honesty broke my heart.
Then—
is that weird?
to want someone to worry about you?
not weird
just human
And then I called him.
“Hi,” he said. But his voice was soft, a little faraway. He sounded tired.
“Oh— I’m sorry—were you sleeping?”
“No, no. But I’m in bed.”
“Me too.”
“Under the covers?”
I laughed. “Hey, it’s this or nothing, okay?”
“I’m not complaining,” he said, and I could almost see him smile. “I’ll take whatever you’re offering.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You sound so sleepy.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I don’t know. I’m tired, but I feel so happy.”
“You do?”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “You make me so happy.” He took a deep breath. Laughed a little. “You’re like a happy drug.”
I was smiling. I didn’t know what to say.
“You there?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m here.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I wish you were here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’d be great.”
He laughed and said, “Why?”
I had a feeling we were both thinking the same thing and neither one of us was saying it. But I’d wanted to kiss him all night. I’d been thinking about it a lot, actually. I’d been thinking about his body, the way it felt to have his arms around me, wishing we’d been alone longer, wishing we’d had more time, wishing for more. More of everything. I often daydreamed about him being here, in my room. I wondered what it would feel like to be wrapped up in him, to fall asleep in his arms. I wanted to experience all kinds of moments with him.
I thought about it, all the time.
Somehow, I knew he was hoping I’d say this to him. Out loud. Tonight. Maybe right now. It scared the crap out of me.
But then, he so often took that leap for me.
Ocean had always been so honest about his feelings. He told me the truth about how he felt even when everything was uncertain, when I otherwise would’ve stayed silent forever.
So I tried to be brave.
“I miss you,” I said quietly. “I know I saw you a few hours ago but I already miss you. I want to see your face. I want to feel your arms around me,” I said, and closed my eyes. “You feel so strong and you make me feel safe and I just— I think you’re amazing,” I whispered. “You’re so wonderful that sometimes I honestly can’t believe you’re real.”
I opened my eyes, the hot phone pressed against my flushed cheek, and he said nothing and I was relieved. I let the quiet devour me. I listened to him breathe. His silence made me feel like I was suspended in space, like I’d been dropped into a confessional.
“I really wanted to kiss you tonight,” I said softly. “I wish you were here.”
Suddenly, I heard him sigh.
It was more like a long, slow exhale. His voice was tight, a little breathless, when he finally said, “There’s really no chance of you getting out of your house right now, is there?”
I laughed and said, “I wish. And trust me, I’ve thought about it.”
“I don’t think you’ve thought about it as much as I have.”
I was smiling. “I think I should go,” I said to him. “It’s like three in the morning.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.”
I laughed again, softly.
We said good night.
And I closed my eyes and clutched my phone to my chest and felt the room spin around me.
25
Twenty-Five
Ocean and I had managed to remain relatively drama-free for just over three weeks now. People were still occasionally staring, still wondering, but my rules about how we spent time together had kept things from getting out of hand. We talked most nights, saw each other as often as our schedules allowed, but kept our distance at school. Soon, most people had moved on, as there wasn’t much news to report. I refused to feed the gossip. I didn’t answer people’s inane questions. Ocean really wanted to drive me to school in the mornings and I wouldn’t accept his offer, no matter how badly I wanted to, because I didn’t want to make a spectacle out of us.
He didn’t love it. In fact, I think he really hated it, hated how I kept pushing him away. But the harder I fell for him, the more I wanted to protect him. And I was falling harder every day.
We’d stopped at my locker at lunch one day so I could switch out my books, and he waited for me, leaning against the wall of ugly metal units, occasionally peering into my open locker. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.
“Is that your journal?” he said.
He reached in and grabbed the weathered composition book and my heart seized so fast I thought I saw stars. I yanked it away from him and clutched it to my chest and felt, for a moment, truly horrified. I did not want him to read this, not ever. There’d be no way for me to maintain even a semblance of self-respect around him after he’d read my many pages-long descriptions of how it felt to be with him—to even be near him. It was way too intense.
He’d probably think I was crazy.
He was laughing at me, laughing at the look on my face, at the speed with which I’d yanked the thing out of his hands, and finally he just smiled. He took my hand. He was running his fingers along the inside of my palm and I swear that was really all it took, sometimes, to make my head spin.
He held my hand up against his chest. It was a thing he did with me a lot, pressed my hands against his chest, and I wasn’t sure why. He never explained it and I didn’t mind. I thought it was kind of adorable.
“Why don’t you want me to read your diary?” he said.
I shook my head, eyes still too wide. “It’s really boring.”
He laughed out loud.
I remember it so clearly, the first time I saw him—it was at that exact moment, right when Ocean laughed and I looked up at his face—that I felt someone staring straight through me. It was rare that I ever felt compelled to seek out the source of a stare, but this one felt different. It felt violent. And that was when I turned and saw his basketball coach for the very first time.
He shook his head at me.
I was so surprised I stepped back. I didn’t actually know who the guy was until Ocean spun around to see what had startled me. Ocean’s face cleared. He called out a hello, and though the guy—I learned then that his name was Coach Hart—nodded what seemed to be a pleasant hello in return, I caught the millisecond he took to catalog the details of my appearance. I saw him glance, ju
st briefly, at my hand and Ocean’s, intertwined.
Then he walked away.
And I felt a sudden, sick feeling settle in my gut.
26
Twenty-Six
Ocean came over for Thanksgiving.
My parents really loved Thanksgiving, and they did the thing really well. My mom also had a soft spot for strays; she’d always leave the door open for friends of ours who had nowhere to go, especially around the holidays. It was kind of our tradition. Every year our Thanksgiving table featured different guests; there was always someone—and usually they were friends of my brother—who didn’t have family to spend the day with, or, alternatively, had family they hated and didn’t want to spend the day with, and they’d always find refuge in our house.
This was how I’d convinced my parents to let Ocean come over.
I didn’t tell them anything except that he was my friend from school, a friend I claimed had no one with whom to cook a turkey on Thanksgiving, but also a friend who was very interested in Persian food.
This last bit delighted my parents to no end.
They lived for opportunities to teach people about Persian everything. Whatever it was, Persian people had invented it, and if they hadn’t invented it, they’d almost certainly improved it, and if you were able to explain in careful, thoughtful detail that maybe there was something Persian people hadn’t invented or improved, well, then, my parents would say that whatever it was probably wasn’t worth having anyway.
The interesting thing about Thanksgiving this year was that it fell almost right in the middle of Ramadan, so we’d be breaking our fast and having Thanksgiving dinner all at the same time. But we started our dinner preparations early, and our guests were always invited to help.
Navid whined all day, even though he was given the simplest task of making mashed potatoes. Ocean thought Navid was hilarious, and I tried to explain that he wasn’t doing a bit, that Navid was really just, like, super annoying when he was fasting, and Ocean shrugged.
“Still funny,” he said.
I’m not sure whether it will surprise you to hear that my parents loved Ocean. Maybe it was because he didn’t argue with them when they explained that Shakespeare, in Farsi, is pronounced sheikheh peer, which means “old sheikh,” and that they felt this was definitive proof that Shakespeare was actually an old Persian scholar. Or maybe it was the way Ocean ate everything they put in front of him and seemed to genuinely enjoy it. My parents had made sure to make an entirely separate, six-course meal for this friend of mine who’d never tried Persian food before, and they’d sat there and stared at him as he ate, and every time he said he liked what he’d eaten they would look up at me and beam, proud as peacocks, finding in Ocean further proof that Persian people had invented only the best things, including the best food.
Ocean sat patiently with my dad, who loved showing everyone his favorite videos on the internet, and never betrayed a hint of irritation, not even as my father made him watch video after video about the remarkable design and efficiency of European faucets. He went through phases, my dad did. That week was all about faucets.
Later, when all the food had been eaten and my mother had turned on the samovar, Ocean listened—attentively—as my parents tried to teach him how to speak Farsi. Except they didn’t really teach; they would just talk. My mother was, for some inexplicable reason, convinced she could force an ability to speak Farsi directly into a person’s brain.
She’d just said something really complicated, and nodded at Ocean, who she was certain would make a fine student, because why wouldn’t he want to learn Farsi, Farsi was obviously the best language, and she repeated the phrase again. Then she gestured to Ocean.
“So,” my mom said, “what did I just say?”
Ocean’s eyes widened.
“That’s not how you teach someone a language,” I said, and rolled my eyes. “You can’t just teach him Farsi through osmosis.”
My mom waved me off. “He understands,” she said. She looked at Ocean. “You understand, don’t you? He understands,” she said to my dad.
My dad nodded like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
“He does not understand,” I said. “Stop being weird.”
“We’re not being weird,” my dad said, looking affronted. “Ocean likes Farsi. He wants to learn Farsi.” He looked at Ocean. “Don’t you, Ocean?”
Ocean said, “Sure.”
And my parents were thrilled.
“That reminds me,” my dad said, his eyes lighting up, “of this poem I was reading the other night—”
My dad jumped up from the table and ran off to get his glasses and his books.
I groaned.
“We’re going to be here all night,” I whispered to my mom. “Make him stop.”
My mom waved me down and said, “Harf nazan.” Be quiet.
And then she asked Ocean if he wanted more tea, and he said no, thank you, and she poured him more tea anyway, and my dad spent the rest of the night reading and translating really dense, old Persian poetry—Rumi, Hafez, Saadi—some of the absolute greats, and I wondered if Ocean would ever want to talk to me again. This particular ritual of my parents’ was actually a thing I loved; I’d spent many nights sitting at the kitchen table with my parents, moved to tears by a particularly powerful line of verse. The problem was just that it took forever to translate old-world Farsi into English. Even a simple poem would take ages to get through because my parents would spend ten minutes translating the old Farsi into modern Farsi, and then they’d ask me to help them translate the modern Farsi into English, and twenty minutes later they’d just throw up their hands and say, “It’s not the same. It’s just not the same in English. It doesn’t have the same flavor. You lose the heartbeat. You’re just going to have to learn Farsi,” they said to Ocean, who only looked at them and smiled.
It wasn’t long before they’d started defending him over me. Every time I’d tell them to back off, to cut this short, they’d turn to Ocean for support. He, of course, very politely took their side, insisting that he didn’t mind, and my mother asked him again if he wanted more tea and he said no, thank you, and she poured him more tea anyway, and she asked him if he wanted more food and he said no, thank you, and she filled four large Tupperware containers with leftovers and stacked them in front of him. But when he saw the food he seemed so genuinely grateful that by the end of the night my parents were half in love with him and perfectly ready to trade me in for a better model.
“He’s so polite,” my mother kept saying to me. “Why aren’t you polite? What did we do wrong?” She looked at Ocean. “Ocean, azizam,” she said, “please tell Shirin she should stop swearing so much.”
Ocean almost lost it for a second. I saw him about to laugh, hard, and he stifled it just in time.
I shot him a look.
My mom was still talking. She was saying, “It’s always asshole this, bullshit that. I say to her, Shirin joon, why are you so obsessed with shit? Why everything is shit?”
“Jesus Christ, Ma,” I said.
“Leave Jesus out of this,” she said, and pointed the wooden spoon at me before using it to hit me in the back of the head.
“Oh my God,” I said, waving her away. “Stop it.”
My mom sighed dramatically. “You see?” she said. She was talking to Ocean now. “No respect.”
Ocean only smiled. He looked like he was still failing to keep that smile from turning into a laugh. He pressed his lips together; cleared his throat. But his eyes gave him away.
Finally, Ocean sighed and stood up, stared at the stack of Tupperware containers set in front of him, and said he’d better call it a night. Somehow, it was almost midnight. I wasn’t kidding about those endless faucet videos.
But when Ocean started saying goodbye, he looked at me like he didn’t actually want to leave, like he was sorry he had to. I waved from across the room as he thanked my parents again, and, once I saw him walking toward the living room,
I went upstairs. I didn’t want to stick around too long and make a whole production of the goodbye. My parents were too smart; I was pretty sure they’d figured out I had some kind of crush on this guy, but I didn’t want them to think I was obsessed with him. But then I heard a soft knock at my bedroom door, not a moment after I’d closed it, and I was stunned to discover Navid and Ocean standing there.
Navid said, “You have fifteen minutes. You’re welcome,” and nudged Ocean into my bedroom.
Ocean was smiling, shaking his head. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed and laughed at the same time. “Your family is funny,” he said. “Navid dragged me up here because he said he wanted to show me the bench press in his room. Is that even a real thing?”
I nodded. But I was kind of freaking out.
Ocean was standing in my bedroom and I had not been prepared for this. Not at all. I knew Navid was trying to do me a favor but I hadn’t had a chance to tidy up my room, to make sure I didn’t have any bras lying around or, to, like, I don’t know, make myself seem cooler than I actually was, and I felt suddenly concerned that I had no idea what it would be like to see my bedroom through someone else’s eyes.
But Ocean was staring.
My small, twin bed was in the right hand corner of the room. The comforter was mussed, the pillows stacked precariously. A few pieces of clothing had been thrown haphazardly on my bed—a tank top and shorts I’d worn to sleep. My phone was plugged into its charger, and it sat on the little bedside table. On the opposite wall was my desk, my computer perched on top, a stack of books sitting next to it. There was a dress form in another corner of the room, a half-finished pattern still pinned to the body. My sewing machine was on the floor nearby, and an open box full of all my other supplies—many spools of thread, pins and a pincushion, envelopes of needles—sat beside it.
In the middle of the floor was a small mess.
A handful of Sharpies were lying on the carpet next to an open sketch pad, an old boom box, and a pair of my dad’s even older headphones. There wasn’t much on the wall. Just a few charcoal pieces I’d done last year.
